


Do you have the time?

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Fisting, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He likes to see how far he can push you. And now you might be a little bit in love with that watch he’s always wearing.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Kudos: 17





	Do you have the time?

Here’s the thing. You just never know what it’ll be with him. Sometimes he takes you apart with his toys (and wasn’t that a shock, the first time you saw the room, saw the pure inventive cruelty of his choices). Sometimes he uses his bare hands to pull you open and find every filthy little secret you thought you could hide, and sometimes he’s so gentle, so careful, but you just can’t trust it. 

He’d be disappointed if you did. 

This is his favorite thing. He’s three fingers deep after a long and careful prep that lasted til you forgot your own name, til his hand was wet and slick to the wrist. Til you shivered apart around him, and when you settled found him still there, just lazily stroking index and middle finger inside you, knuckles brushing your folds in a promise for more. Maybe his hand is cramping but he enjoys that too, enjoys showing you his perfect control. Enjoys showing you that he can go til you can’t stand it, until the tears coat your face and you’re crying wet and ugly for him. 

How he loves to lap the tears from your face, to burrow his tongue down below the salt to get at the pure taste of your skin. 

You’re not crying yet tonight, but there’s still time. 

“How long has it been since you had my fist?” His tone is conversational, almost bored. He wants an answer, and when you don’t respond fast enough he’s withdrawing his hand enough to shove his fourth finger in alongside the others. His thumb rubs circles on you, building a pressure that you feel approaching like a freight train. You’d think he would pull back, keep your from falling over the edge, but instead he drives you forward. 

“How long?” He asks again, even as you’re still fluttering around him. His eyes are hard and cold, pinning you like an insect under his gaze. _Too long_ is the best you can come up with, but it amuses him, touches that part of him that loves to see you fail his commands so he can punish you. His orders are never impossible, no, but difficult. And he does _so_ love to distract you. “We go until you answer, or until you pass out.” You see the loophole—he never said you had to answer _correctly_ — but like hell are you going to take it. 

When his thumb slides in, you do cry a little. No matter how much time and care he takes, it’s always just so much. So unbearably intimate, like he could grasp at you and pull your strings from the inside. And when he’s seated to the wrist he twitches his fingers minutely, presses and withdraws by fractions of an inch. Leans onto one forearm so his face is right above yours and presses his hand in. And he keeps pressing until you’re actually screaming through your tears, hips trying to buck but he has you speared. And when the winding mechanism of his watch catches at you, when you feel the cool smooth watch face threatening to enter you as well, well, that’s when you lose consciousness. 

And when you come back, his fist is still there inside you, still gently pressing and withdrawing. And he asks, again. “How long has it been?”


End file.
